Cosmic Irony
by OrionLady
Summary: It's like the start of a bad joke—Richard stumbled into his office, Homer Simpson bowtie askew, and waved a bouquet of pages in his face. Gerard blames that stupid hoodie. Now if only everyone could stop getting shot… Part 2 of "The Scarf."
1. Chapter 1

**AN: **I know this movie came out over thirty years ago, but I still think it deserves lots of love! Part 2 of my series "The Scarf," but not necessary to read the others first. Bon apetit, lovely people!

* * *

Gerard didn't realize it was happening until Richard stumbled into his office, Homer Simpson bowtie askew—a 'congratulations on being declared innocent' gift from Cosmo that Richard wore religiously, not understanding it was a gag gift—and waved a bouquet of pages in his face.

Waved pages while Gerard let him, blinking and patiently waiting for the good doctor to explain himself. Sam didn't flinch or shoot anyone.

Small miracles.

"I found it!" Kimble proclaimed to Sam and the office in general. Like a kid who'd located his lost puppy. He slapped the paperback on Gerard's desk. "Took me two days of scrap heaping at the library but I found it."

"Found what?" Sam picked it up but kept his eyes on Richard's face.

Richard was flush with triumph. He wore dark slacks and a faded blue dress shirt. A few tongue depressors still poked out of his breast pocket.

_Just got off work at the clinic_, Gerard noted.

Sam's team gathered in a half circle around the man, arms folded. Their posture didn't fool Sam. A motley collection of grins lit up the bullpen.

It occurred to Gerard that he hadn't seen Kimble smile like that before. Open, a little mischievous.

Richard's turn to look surprised. "You asked me for information about cardiovascular surgery. 'Some dusty old book will do,' you said."

Gerard blinked. He brandished the book. "I did?"

Newman snickered. "You did, boss. You were super interested in the med talk."

"Just last week during the lunch meeting," Poole supplied.

_I invited him to our lunch meeting? _

Stupid question.

Since the Christmas debacle and achievement of forgiveness, closure, between them—Richard had been invited over lots of times. He knew almost as much about their current cases as they did. He'd even consulted on evasion patterns several times, to great success.

The gang adored him.

Gerard finally leafed through the smallish textbook. It was a surgeon's refresher guide to cardiovascular patient assessment and surgical procedures. Huh.

His brows climbed towards his hairline. "Richard. You went to the _public _library?"

"Yeah." The doctor shifted uncomfortably and it would have been funny to watch an award winning vascular surgeon squirm if the reasons for his constant tension weren't so sad. "They had to unfreeze my library card. Points for CPD's thoroughness."

The gang shared a laugh with him. They rifled through cartons of Chinese while Richard watched Gerard. Cosmo bumped the doctor on the way by with an affectionate mumble. Biggs patted the man's shoulder.

"The public library?" Sam insisted. "Doesn't Chicago Memorial have two floors of medical texts?"

Gerard regretted the words the instant they left his mouth.

Biggs and Cosmo glared a hole in Sam's skull.

Richard wasn't flushed anymore.

He took the marshal's pinched eyes and moan for disapproval. "I knew the public library carried this text. No need to go back…"

More arm patting. Someone handed Richard a massive plate of low mein. Poole. Mother hen.

"Sorry, Richard."

Heads shot towards Sam in surprise. Renfro gaped.

_What? I know that word. Just don't use it often._

Gerard stood and walked around the desk. He mirrored the grin that returned to the doctor's face.

"That was rude, Doc. What I mean is it's awful nice of you to drop the book off yourself. I need it for a case. Thanks."

Sorry _and _thanks. He thought Cosmo might pass out. Sam smiled some more.

"Although, I'm not sure I understand it all," Gerard added. "Good thing doctors make house calls. Or…office calls, in this case."

"Anytime," said Richard.

He was comfortable…in the bullpen where they had hunted him down…surrounded by cops.

Small miracles.

* * *

Of course, when Gerard said that, he didn't expect the joke to be reciprocated so soon.

Sam and Cosmo were in a dump truck.

Which was par for the course.

They'd tracked down a perp west of downtown Chicago and tailed him out of the city, posing as sanitation workers. Their dump truck kept a cool distance while pretending to pick up industrial trash.

The dump truck wasn't moving.

Which was the bad part.

"Cosmo? Renfro, son, this is falling down on the job. I'm going to have to write you up." Gerard swore where they huddled in the filthy yet thankfully empty flatbed of the truck. "Come on, Renfro."

Gerard pumped on Cosmo's chest—covered in blood.

Which was the really, really, _really_ bad part that had Sam's hands shaking where they parted Cosmo's bloody lips so he could fill the man's lungs. Another few pumps. Thank God for CPR training.

Except it wasn't working.

"Renfro!"

Nothing.

Gerard hit speed dial on his phone before he realized he was moving.

"_Gerard?_" asked a surprised voice.

"He's not breathing."

A pause. Shuffling. A zipper shrilling and doors slamming.

"_Gerard? What's going on? Who's not?_"

Sam snapped out of it. "Cosmo isn't breathing. Send someone over, a doctor or something. And get me an ambulance! Now!"

Another pause, this one much longer. The sound of a car starting had Sam reaching for his gun before he realized it came from the other end of the phone.

"_Where are you?_"

"Industrial park," said Gerard.

"_I'll be there in ten._"

"No," Sam barked. "I said get me an _ambulance_."

But whoever was on the other end had already hung up. Sam threw the phone. He pumped at Cosmo's chest and cursed some more. Particularly at their perp who had the nerve to shoot his agent in broad daylight. His teeth ground together in gawky polyrhythms.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed before a scruffy face bent into his line of vision.

"Gerard," said the face.

Sam rocked back on his heels, eyes wide. "Kimble?"

"Didn't you know you dialed me?" Richard's eyes raked over the marshal with typical doctor subtlety. Then he hopped up into the bed of the truck and knelt beside Cosmo. "Be thankful it's my day off."

"He…He's not breathing. Why isn't he _breathing_?"

Kimble's head whipped up. He grabbed Gerard's hand, warm compared to the February cold, and brought it to Cosmo's lips.

Sam balked. "He's not—"

"Feel that?"

Soft puffs of moist air hit Sam's fingertips. He deflated.

"You did it," said the doctor, quiet. "You got him breathing again."

"Thought I'd lost him there…"

Unfathomably, Richard smiled. "I'm better than an ambulance."

"So you are."

"But one is on the way. Should be here in a minute."

Kimble was careful not turn or jostle Cosmo's head. He examined the blood along the right side of Cosmo's face. He'd put on latex gloves at some point, an odd sight against the man's collegiate hoodie and grease stained jeans.

"He's lucky," said Richard at last, settling back on his heels. With a gauze pad, he applied pressure. "The bullet just grazed his temple. It was probably blood loss that knocked him out in the first place. Shock can be a tricky thing, you know."

Gerard didn't realize this last bit was _his _diagnosis until Richard grabbed a yellow shock blanket from the EMT—when had an ambulance arrived?—and draped it over Sam's shoulders.

"Stop that. I am perfectly fine, Kimble." Gerard flung the blanket off and addressed emergency crews. "Can I ride with my agent?"

The EMTs let him through.

Through the ambulance's frosted glass, he watched Kimble drive along behind them. His sharp eyes caught Sam's once, earning the marshal a thumbs up from the man he'd almost shot that Saint Patrick's Day.

A thumbs up. From an innocent fugitive. Now the mascot for team Gerard and the U.S. Marshal's Office.

When did this become his life?

At the hospital, Gerard lost sight of Cosmo behind ICU doors. With this rare moment of privacy, he ran a shaking hand through his hair. He only surfaced from his reverie when he saw a stretcher wheel by him in the emergency room—

Poole was reading the injured perp his rights. Good. They deserved one victory in this hellhole of a day.

"Fine work, Poole."

She flashed him a wolfish grin. "Picked him up a half mile from your location by tracking your phones. He rolled down an embankment first. Such a shame."

"Truly unfortunate," Sam deadpanned back.

"Are you going to let me check you over now?" Richard asked, emerging from the ICU doors. Gerard didn't miss the blood on his hands.

"No. Not until I know if my man is okay."

"He's fine." Kimble stepped directly into Sam's absent line of sight. "I stitched the head wound myself. No internal brain damage. That's amazing. But they're doing a blood transfusion now. Head wounds bleed a lot."

And wouldn't you know it: that sneaky doctor maneuvered Gerard into a waiting room chair and did a light physical exam before Sam knew what was happening.

"I'm fine, Kimble. I'm not the one who got shot. Not even a scratch."

"No, but you are in shock."

"Shock? Cosmo got a steel girder to the face that night with Nichols. You didn't see me with my panties in a twist then."

Richard stilled. An odd thing considering his usual nervous energy. It was this, of all things, that brought Sam's attention to the man in full.

"But you weren't alone that night in the hotel," Richard murmured. "Today…today you were left by yourself. Deserted section of town. Partner down. Backup far away."

Sam swallowed several defensive retorts and closed his eyes.

After that it was all medical jargon and coffee and waiting. Doctors were anxious to see if the blood transfusion would bring up Cosmo's heartrate and blood pressure. Systolic readings were dangerously low.

Richard didn't leave his side once. Not when Gerard shivered, not when he hazed out at all the blood on his clothes.

Things got kind of fuzzy once, but Kimble kept muttering, which was annoying. The low buzz of his voice, however, fought off Gerard's visions of his boy dying. Of the bullet hitting just centimeters to the right.

"Where's the head?" he barked after the third hour.

Kimble pointed two doors up the hall.

Sam closed the bathroom door and leaned briefly leaned on it. A puff of air escaped his lips. The water only ran cold, even when Sam turned the hot handle. He didn't care. Great splashes met his worn skin with refreshing bite.

Hands braced on the sink, Gerard finally glanced at his reflection.

He did a double take.

"What the Samhill?"

A hoodie now sat over his custodian jumper disguise—

A med school hoodie. Little stethoscope symbol over the heart and everything. It was a little small but that only snuggled the fleece tighter to his body.

_Kimble's hoodie_. _He snuck the hoodie onto me during the exam._

Sam couldn't explain it when he began to laugh. Laughed so hard crow's feet appeared around his eyes. Actual laugh lines. He didn't know they existed.

When he came back out, Kimble had lost the comforting friend persona and begun to pace the hall, face void of colour, hands tucked against his sides but visibly unsteady.

With wondering eyes, Sam wandered over. "Well lookie here. You did it."

"What?"

"You did it."

Richard finally glanced at him. "Did what?"

"You're in a hospital," said Gerard simply.

Richard tensed further, if possible. "I know. Not liking it."

"That makes two of us."

Kimble caught the marshal's eye. The words echoed for longer than they should have but Gerard wouldn't take them back, not for the world. He sniffed, straightened his shoulders, and zipped the slide up to his sternum.

"You're never getting this hoodie back."

"You owe me a cup of coffee, then."

"Knowing you, Doctor—don't you mean a bucket?"

Richard rolled his eyes.

* * *

"You sure you want to do this?"

The man at Gerard's shoulder whipped around to shoot him a cocktailed look of incredulity, bewilderment, and fear. He thumbed at scruff on his face.

"Aren't you supposed to be my wing man? Fountain of optimism?"

Gerard snorted. "Do you know me at all?"

"Yeah. Never mind."

"Not gonna lie, I thought about just shoving you through the doors."

"Of course you did."

Together, the two men stared up at a twenty two story building. It could have been a hotel or an apartment building. There were beds near the windows and lots of plants. It looked well cared for, all brick and brownstone.

Charming. Trustworthy.

Bustling with bloody people at the doors.

"You don't have to do this," said Sam, trying not to let the pity creepy into his voice. Or the worry. "Not today. We have time. It's only been a year. There's no shame in taking things slow."

The month had been long. Cosmo was released on the condition he remain out of the field…at a desk. Kimble had been met with a round of applause when he'd first entered the office four weeks ago, dropping off meds for Cosmo. They'd all struggled to move forward after almost losing one of their own. Gerard hadn't slept properly all month.

The last thing Sam needed was their PTSD ridden doctor having a panic attack in Chicago Memorial's emergency room.

_Then again…I suppose we're in the right place for it. _

As if reading Sam's mind, Kimble sighed. He shuffled a bundle of papers in his hand.

"I have all the applications."

"Yup."

"The board even reinstated my practice license."

"Uh-huh."

Richard's eyes were fixed on the ground, but they suddenly softened. "Thanks for agreeing to come. Makes this easier."

"Kimble." Gerard gestured with both hands to his friend, the building, everything. "Why?"

"Why what?" Richard blinked quickly.

"Why did you ask _me _to be with you today? Why not Kathy? Heck, Poole would have come in a heartbeat if you asked."

Richard's wide gaze tracked Sam's face, the bob of his nose when he sniffed. The doctor's brows drew low over a wrinkling mouth. The fire pierced something in Gerard's chest.

Without quite knowing why, pulse beats skipped at the sight of that expression.

Having Kimble around often felt like bringing a newborn baby home, full of firsts and confusing cues and utterances that made sense to someone else in Richard's life, someone who was probably dead, his mannerisms all new and completely without a guidebook.

This was another first for Sam—

_Anger._

Not frustration, not fond exasperation. Not hate, like when Kimble looked at Nichols. No, this expression created a breathless eddy in Sam's lungs because it was pure, old fashioned _fury_.

Kimble growled out a long note and slapped the papers to Gerard's chest. Sam, arms floundering, fumbled to catch the job application before it hit the ground.

Papers crinkling and face slack like a bumbling PA, he could only trot to catch up with Richard as the doctor marched through the sliding doors and up the stairs.

This bout of irate energy launched Richard confidently through the geometrically frosted glass of a door that read CARDIOVASCULAR.

A petite secretary, blond hair in a clipped ponytail and smile dripping with kindness, was apparently the monolith that stopped Richard in his tracks. He gestured for a moment before words came.

"I…uh…"

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Yes…I called yesterday and they asked me to-to come in," Richard managed. "To apply for my old job."

She was young. Her next question made both men wince. "Name?"

Kimble's jaw went low. He played with his sport coat pocket as if the answer would magically be on a cue card hidden therein. Gerard's heart panged.

Hard.

He angled himself around and slightly in front of Richard. "Kimble. Doctor R. Kimble."

He pulled back, pleased with himself for remembering the new policy that doctors go by initials for their first names.

Richard looked impressed too, though he wouldn't face Gerard.

The woman opened her mouth to say something when another man opened one of the exam room doors. His hands were just extracting a Mars bar from his white lab coat pocket—which matched his white hair—when he spotted Kimble.

"Richard! Oh, old friend!"

And the aging doctor bounded across the lobby and swept Richard up in a bear hug before the surgeon had time to form a word. Gerard didn't miss the way Kimble stiffened under the contact of a larger man's hands. Sam kept his unusual silence.

"Harding," Richard said, breathless. "I thought you'd have retired by now."

"I was going to." Doctor Harding drew back. "But someone has to train the interns. I'm having too much fun now. They aren't like when I taught you, dear boy."

Richard found an appropriate pause in which to put more distance between himself and the hands.

"I'm here to apply for…to _reapply _for my old position. I know I'll probably be on probation, I understand, but I hope that—"

"Apply?" Harding stared at Kimble in shock.

Gerard and Kimble held their breath in unison. The possibility of rejection riled Sam up on the doctor's behalf. He braced himself to argue.

"Are you fooling me? After what the courts put you through?" Harding broke into a wide grin. Sam thought he saw how the man could be a fun professor. "Not on your life are you _applying_. Pah! The job is yours. You have it."

Richard shook the doctor's hand but his other shot out to pat the desk in a deceptively casual motion. Sam resisted the urge to assist Richard in his feeble attempt to regain his balance.

It was at this exact moment that Sam realized _it _was happening.

_It's happening. Holy Hannah. _

"Thank you, Paul," said Kimble. "When do I start?"

Harding glanced at his watch. "It's Friday, right? Let's say Monday. There are no consultations or surgeries this weekend and I can cover any emergencies in the meantime. Good to have you back, Richard. I'll draw up all the paperwork myself."

With another handshake, the secretary bustled Harding off to his next appointment.

The pair was left standing alone in the lobby.

"That was easy," said Gerard at length.

Richard whirled. Though nerves were close to the surface and his body language was timid, every line of his face hardened to granite. He leaned in close to Sam's face.

"I can't believe you asked me that." He rammed Gerard's shoulder when he pushed past and out the door, still muttering, "'Why?' Why do you think, idiot?"

The secretary reappeared in time to catch this and freeze. Hugging her clipboard, she glanced from Gerard to the vacant doorway.

Sam's voice came out quieter than his thoughts felt. "Here. These are all his legal documents and a cover letter. My number's in there too, just in case. For, you know…if he gets overwhelmed at work."

He set the papers on her desk and couldn't figure out where he was supposed to go from here.


	2. Chapter 2

Cops in movies are always asleep when phones ring at three in the morning. Groggy, cranky, cliché.

Gerard didn't have the classic wake up sequence because he wasn't sleeping.

At all.

He'd stopped pretending last week and forgone pajamas for his usual clothes or dressing gown. Now he sat in that stupid hoodie like some angst plagued teenager while watching a musical on mute. The house was dark.

Suddenly, his phone was not.

"Gerard here."

The other end of the line was still. Not _silent_, exactly, for Gerard could hear someone breathing through his or her nose. But still. No motion.

"Hello? This is Deputy Gerard," he tried again.

"I'm here."

Gerard paused at that. He cocked his head, watching Mary Poppins fly over a house.

"Are you sure?" Sam asked. "Because you don't sound…"

"I'm awake."

"Sure, Richard. Whatever you say. You do realize that it's Sunday night."

"Yes."

"And three in the morning."

"You're not sleeping either."

"Shut up. You did not call me at this godforsaken hour to berate my sleeping habits."

Kimble said nothing.

"Did you watch the Laker's game?" asked Gerard, trying to rouse the bear.

"I'm not much for sports."

"Why doesn't that surprise me? C'mon. There's got to be some sport you like."

Richard was silent. Something rattled in the background.

Gerard's spine went from supine old man to steel girder so fast it popped. His own breaths echoed back from the receiver, faster now. "Richard? Where are you right now? Talk to me."

"What?" Richard sounded surprised, an insult to Gerard's galloping heart. "What's wrong?"

"You…" Sam massaged his chest as if that would help it stop the trapeze impression. "You're not somewhere…dangerous…are you?"

"What? No. I'm in my garage, Sam. Just working on the new truck. I'm at the tire wells for the moment. Stubborn things won't align. I've always been horrible with cars."

_Sam. He finally called me Sam. _The very first time ever.

"Sam?"

"Yeah, I'm here."

"You okay?"

"That's what I'm asking you."

Richard scoffed but it didn't hide something shaking in his breathing.

"New car." Gerard swallowed, going for humour. "You call that heap of bilge new?"

"It was cheap!"

"It sure was."

"I wanted a fixer upper."

For reasons Gerard didn't want to probe, both went very muted. Sam suddenly wanted nothing more than to see that Richard was in one piece. That he wasn't going over the deep end like Sam had feared at Christmas. That _he_, Gerard, wasn't going over the deep end.

A more likely scenario, really.

Richard sniffed. "Remember that time I called you from Sykes' house? When I found evidence and you traced the call?"

"Yes." Sam frowned.

"And." Kimble hesitated. "And you came."

"What does that have to do with—?"

"Because I'd never broken into anybody's house before that day and it smelled weird but familiar. His house was offensive, you know? Because it was domestic. It was _normal_."

Everything came over Sam in one pop. He stood. "Richard. It's going to be—"

"Like he stole it from me. _Stole _it. And, man, you probably don't realize, but I heard everything agents hissed at you over the phone."

"Ri—"

"It's not like that helped when I had to crawl back _out _the window. You lied on the phone. But you came to the house. Which made it less like a lie."

Sam's voice went unbelievably quiet. "_Richard_. Tomorrow…you'll do fine."

"Thanks," Richard whispered. With a sigh, he set down something metallic. Probably a wrench. "Thanks for tracing the call, that time."

White fingers kneaded into the couch in place of Kimble's shoulder.

"Any time, Richard. Any time."

* * *

_Why do all hospitals smell like cheap wine that's been spilled in a men's bathroom?_

This wasn't strictly a rule, of course. But Gerard traversed the halls of Chicago Memorial's upper, quieter floors and wondered what was in the chemicals they used. What corners it lurked in, eyeing visitors and flinging repugnance upon them.

_I've been awake too long_.

This made much more sense than his first conclusion.

A door at the end of the hall was ajar and Sam glided inside without knocking. A blond woman, her hair grown out since the gang had last interviewed her, adjusted the sleeve of her white lab coat to fiddle with a microscope's dials. Fleshy plants made the small lab office feel larger than it was.

"Doctor Wahlund, you probably don't know me." He considered flashing his badge and thought better of it. She couldn't see him anyway. "But I'm a…friend of Richard's."

To her credit, she didn't jump. Good ears, then.

"Samuel Gerard." Kathy sat back from her squint at microbes, stool in a slight spin. At his wide eyes, she coloured a little. "I followed the news during Richard's hunt for his wife's killer. Closely."

One eyebrow quirked up but that was all the comment Sam offered. A basket of chocolate bars and imported coffee sat cellophane wrapped on her desk with a green cardstock note tucked behind some lemon squares.

Kathy followed his eyes. "I haven't had a chance to pop down and see Richard yet. Didn't want to overwhelm him on his first week back."

Gerard nodded but it was an absent gesture. He fiddled with the knobs on an unplugged centrifuge.

Kathy watched him, hands folded, smile creeping upwards on her face.

"I want to thank you for having Richard in for Christmas dinner," she said. "My husband and I were away in December and worried about him. Him being alone this first year…"

With a shrug, Gerard finally faced her. "It was the least I could offer. Richard's a good man who's been manipulated by bad people."

"You're a good man too."

And Sam would have laughed in the face of it all if Kathy hadn't said it with such murmured conviction, like she was simply listing a periodic element, and her eyes hadn't burned into him with something calculating now. He was acutely aware of her probably sky high IQ.

"You want to tell me why you came here at two in the afternoon on a Thursday, to see me instead of Richard?"

Their gazes locked. Kathy didn't even flinch and Gerard looked away first.

"This isn't right," he said.

"What isn't?"

"All of…" Sam flailed a hand but Kathy leaned back, arms crossed, and he thought maybe she understood anyway.

"Deputy Gerard, do you know how many buddies Richard had, before Helen's death?"

Mouth dry, Sam shook his head.

"Dozens." Kathy grinned. It was void of humour. "Dozens and dozens. Richard could make friends wherever he went."

"And now?" asked Gerard.

Kathy spread her arms, a ring master in an empty grandstand. "As many as are in this room. We're all present and accounted for."

Gerard closed his eyes and regretted asking.

"No family? In-laws?"

The doctor barked a laugh and this time Sam knew better than to ask. He paced to the window and back once, listening to the PA call for attending OR surgeons. He wondered if one of them was Richard. He wondered who got Charles Nichols' job. He wondered if he could justify throttling Richard's father in law.

The woman's caramel smooth tone pulled him out of his musings of how to bury bodies without them being found. "It's scary, isn't it?"

"What?" Gerard's voice came out like a dog's hoarse warning snarl. Weak yet stubborn.

"It's why you're here," said the pathologist. "It's why you haven't slept properly. Don't try to deny it. I used to be a GP."

Sam exhaled and landed heavily in a neighbouring chair. He realized he was sweating. Small consolation—but so was Kathy. "He trusts me."

"He trusted you to find his wife's murderer and keep him safe during the trial. Nothing new there."

"Why would he trust a man who almost shot him?" Sam insisted. "I'm not anyone's first choice for a friend."

"Exactly." This time Kathy's mellow expression was more genuine. "He's loyal to a fault, Gerard. It's probably what took him so long to suspect Charles in the first place. You gave him possibly the one thing no one else has. What no one else _can_."

Gerard raised both brows in question.

Kathy's grip, when it captured his forearm, proved warm and indestructible. "Someone who _understands_. Someone who knows the whole story, who witnessed his sufferings. You're there for him. The question is…"

She stood and smiled, offering him her hand, and Gerard saw why Richard respected this cowboy of a woman so much. He returned the firm grip.

"…Are you going to let him do the same for you?"

* * *

Cosmic irony.

This had been his undergrad theater professor's favourite term. He used it for the express purpose of ticking off the one student who didn't want to be there, who'd taken said drama class purely for one arts elective he was short of to graduate.

Now, however, Samuel Gerard glanced at himself in the hallway mirror and thought maybe his professor had been onto something.

_"Cosmic irony is the state of unknown things, they say. Really, it is things that are so familiar to us that they appear unknown. Ha!"_

Ha, indeed.

"This is stupid," Extremely Dignified US Marshal Gerard declared. He picked up his cellphone and dialled a number without looking at the keypad. Clanking car parts met his ear. "How did I get a date to this thing and not you?"

It was a testament to the frequency of these evening calls that Richard didn't say a word, didn't even have to ask who was on the other end. "Word in the staff lounge is that Kathy was quite impressed by you."

"Impressed?"

"It's a compliment," said Richard. And Gerard could practically see that unique hand roll Kimble did when explaining something. Probably with a wrench or stethoscope in hand. "She doesn't respect people so easily. She only met you once and she has your back. Take it, Gerard."

Sam stole one last look at his bewildered, boy-on-the-first-day-of-school body language and went out to his car. It started after the second turn. "I am. Why do you think I'm escorting her to this vamoscol—"

"Vascular," Richard corrected, quiet.

"Whatever. Why else would I have accepted her Sadie Hawkins proposal?"

"I can fix that ignition hiccup you've got." The doctor's voice had perked up. This irritated Gerard to no end.

Besides, he knew the _exact_ name of the medical term for this event and Richard knew that he knew.

"Richard. Don't ignore my—" Gerard pulled the phone away from his ear. Something like pride sparked amusement in his eyes. "He hung up on me. That's a first."

Several neighbourhoods later, and a golden glow spilled onto the street from a bungalow with attached garage, like a giant advent candle. It even flickered when someone's shadow passed in front of it.

Sam eased into the tiny bungalow driveway. Phone tucked into his tuxedo pocket, he sauntered through the open garage door and passed a hunched over figure, seated on a low stool in front of the wheel wells of a vintage Model T. The house's side door was propped ajar by an old shoe; Gerard hopped the steps into the kitchen.

"Breaking and entering," Richard muttered without looking up.

Pausing, Gerard leaned back and flicked off the mechanic bulb. Maybe it would turn off the doctor's mind too—Gerard didn't miss the purple bags under his eyes. They matched the ones in Sam's mirror.

"Harassing a civil servant," Richard added.

"Civil servant? You're a doctor."

"Right. A doctor is a civil servant."

Gerard's eyes widened. He scrambled to remember if he'd learned this in his now ancient academy days. Then he smiled and swatted the door frame. "Almost had me there, Doc. If we were in Canada, maybe _then_ you'd be right…"

Richard reached up, twisting the light back on. Grease stains were revealed along the faded denim button up.

"Disobeying a _real_ civil servant," Gerard sing-songed.

"Police brutality for annoying me with this conversation."

"Grand theft auto for stealing that poor thing from the scrapyard."

"It's a classic." Kimble's nose scrunched and released. "I'm going to refurbish it."

"Why?" It wasn't even a cynical question. Figuring out why Richard wanted to remodel a truck from the 1910s was like figuring out the purpose behind the Antikythera device. Figuring Richard himself out would just plain never happen.

Best to be humble and ask, really.

Richard finally made eye contact. He looked just as baffled. "To drive it. Why else?"

Sam shook his head with a snort. Tapping the door frame with his knuckles, he disappeared inside. The house was dark, only the oven light on. Still, he navigated rooms with the ease of someone who catalogues surroundings for a living. He'd only been here three times. That was sufficient.

When he came back down the steps, Kimble leaned against the truck while wiping grease off his hands. Gerard waited until the man was clean and put down the cloth. The fact his friend was on his feet made it so much more satisfying to fling the plastic tuxedo bag in his face.

With Richard a few inches shorter than Sam, the bag landed flip flopped right over his head. He froze.

Sam regretted the rash action for three point two seconds until Kimble—slowly—pulled the bag down so it sat in his arms and not hooked over his skull, revealing lowered brows and a cement line to his mouth. His hair stuck up in wild tufts.

_At last. Some emotion that's not sorrow or anxiety. _

This was progressing better than Gerard hoped.

"I'm not going." Only Kimble's default gentle decorum kept his voice from being a growl. "I have the right to sit this one out. Helen…Helen died during a party like this. Because I was away from home."

Sam's features smoothed instantly. "I know. And I'm not making you go. Nobody has the right to push you: not me, not coworkers, not my kids. No one, you hear? I just thought being surrounded by familiar faces might do you better than sitting alone in a cold garage."

Kimble didn't appear to move at all, but the plastic crinkled noisily, his fingers hidden in the material.

"Did you ever think that maybe we worry about you being alone at home?"

The doctor looked up at that. He shook his head.

Sam ducked his face with another snort. "Well, Poole worries about you, anyway. Loudly. In my office."

Richard smiled too. Both imagined the short woman's determination to badger everyone in her immediate vicinity to be cared for.

"Richard," Sam whispered, "There's no one here to get hurt in your absence. You're not coming home to blood or broken furniture or intruders. Not this time. Not ever again, if I can help it."

Richard's eyes were somewhere to his right—the memory side of eye movement, Sam knew. That was alright. Gerard could wait him out, could satisfy himself with Kimble's skating jaw, a metal detector sliding back and forth along this personal desert.

Richard blew through the circle of his lips. "It's not being held at the…the hotel again this year?"

Gerard knew the doctor had received an invitation, that he knew the answer to this question. Sam answered the man anyway. "Nope. It's at the golf club, outside the city. It couldn't be further from last year's venue."

Kimble nodded. "Good. That's good."

And then they were left standing there, tuxedo clad marshal feeling like an idiot and a surgeon who'd stopped twitching out of sheer exhaustion. A night out was just what he needed. It was a Friday. No surgeries.

"Are you on call?" Sam asked.

Richard shook his head. "I asked not to be put on the list. Not yet anyway. After…"

Sam nodded so Kimble didn't have to finish that thought. He glanced at his watch. "Well, campers. I have a date to pick up and a smart-guy party to mingle at in less than forty five minutes. I was promised steak by Kathy, so that should make the evening worthwhile, if nothing else."

Richard smiled, one hand on his hip now. "You enjoy yourself, Deputy."

"You too, Doctor."

The vascular surgeon who cut people's arteries open for a living sat down in front of his stubborn wheel wells with a goodbye wave to the man who shot open people's arteries for a living.

Cosmic irony.

Gerard drove away and wondered when—or if—the writhing knot in his chest would go away.


	3. Chapter 3

She wore a pant suit. Of course. It was a chartreuse thing with crystal buttons along the sleeves. Wide trouser legs swished around three inch heels.

Kathy caught Sam's expression and winked while opening the car door.

"You look wonderful, Doctor."

Kathy settled back in the passenger seat. "Please. I get to slough my lab coat for one party. No titles tonight."

"You look wonderful then, _Kathy_."

She patted his arm. "Atta boy. You clean up nicely yourself. You and I have a similar sense of humour, which will make schmoozing up hospital sponsors remotely bearable. Normally I bring my husband but he's working—and much too straight laced to have fun at this kind of event."

Sam snickered. "We can spike the punch when no one's looking."

Kathy beamed. It was the start of a beautiful friendship.

"I have to be honest, though," said Kathy.

"Oh?" Sam took his eyes off the road to glance at her.

"I half hoped inviting you would give Richard the push he needed to come too. That with you there he'd feel comfortable."

Surprise was a flushed dart along Sam's skin. He recovered after a beat.

"I hoped so too." Gerard sighed. "I even stopped by his place. He wouldn't bite. Maybe we can save him a plate of those mushroom cheese puffs he likes. He can't have the broccoli though because it sits poorly…"

He trailed off at the sight of Kathy's narrowed eyes and upturned ruby lips.

"What?"

"Nothing." She pretended to root through her clutch. "I just wish he'd known you before all this happened. I've been meaning to tell you how much I appreciate someone having his back."

"Yeah, yeah," Gerard groused. "Get in line."

Chicago Memorial didn't skimp on cost. By the time Kathy and Sam arrived at the country club, the outdoor party, spread like fireflies in glittering jewels across the green, was in full swing. A live jazz band played up tempo hits underneath warm orange and yellow lights.

An impromptu dance floor had spawned between the stage and little tribe of food tables. Guests mingled with flutes of champagne, their laughter hitting Gerard the moment he stepped out and around his car. He opened the door for Kathy.

Her eyes were just as wondering when she got a full view of the festivities. "After being stuck in stuffy labs all day, I suppose doctors party the hardest."

Gerard laughed. He offered his elbow and was thankful for no valet service so he could take his time walking across the parking lot.

"When was the last time you danced?" Kathy asked.

"Oh no." Gerard slashed his free hand to the side. "You'll be lucky to get me to clap."

Kathy delightedly ignored him by making her first order of business dragging a U.S. marshal onto the dance floor for a slow, swaying thing somewhere between a waltz and an eighties prom.

"Shoo." Gerard shook his head around a gusty exhale. "I need a stiff drink."

"You remind me of a cowboy," Kathy said.

"So do you," said Sam before he could stop himself.

Kathy just laughed.

"My wife divorced me three years ago," said Sam. "Hadn't danced with her for at least that long before we split."

One manicured brow went up. "Are you telling me you haven't danced with a woman for almost seven years?"

Gerard nudged her into a turn underneath his raised arm.

"Well, well, well," said Kathy. "Look who still has some moves."

Sam was thankful for his tuxedo's high collar. It hid a tomato flush betraying his otherwise impassive face. They sashayed to another song and then Kathy looped him around tables and colleagues.

She only introduced her date as "Sam," for which he was immensely grateful. He'd researched these people, knew the lives of those who asked, "Do you work down in autopsy? You look awfully familiar."

To which Gerard replied, "I'm a friend of Richard's. You've probably seen me hanging around."

"That must be it!" they laughed.

It was at the third hour of the party—and Sam's second bourbon—that a gargling engine, which didn't quite fit with the crisp and pristine atmosphere, puttered into the lot. Its noise carried just under the conversation of guests. Still, Gerard swung to the source.

And wouldn't you know it: one cobalt Model T sat in a space near the curb. Several older doctors murmured their awe, speculating who it could belong to.

There were those crow's feet again. They crinkled around Sam's eyes and broke the placid façade. He didn't even need to see the driver hop out before waving Kathy over from a dessert table. She licked strawberry sauce off her fingers and trotted to his side. Her face too lit up at a hunched, suited figure joining the party.

White haired colleagues ambushed him to rave about the vintage truck and where did he find parts? The paint job is _original_?

"Alright, gentlemen." Kathy rescued Kimble with a hug. He held onto her for a second. "Let's get some of this delicious food into Richard, hmm?"

The huddle of doctors chuckled at some joke Richard made as he left. Gerard, however, ceased taking in much of this happy scene—

_The scarf. He's…he's…_

He was wearing that blasted scarf. The two tone thing Sam gave him for Christmas. Kimble caught his eye through the melee and nodded and Sam had to clear his throat against some sand in his eyes.

He'd swear to that sand, later.

Then the surgeon and Kathy joined him and he could breathe properly.

"Sorry I'm late," said Richard. "Took me forever to get those wheels aligned."

Kathy squeezed his arm—"you're not eating enough"—and covered up the sand in _her _eyes by going to get Richard a plate of food.

The two men watched her go. Gerard sniffed and seemed to be examining the scenery.

"What is it with rich people and golf?"

Richard smiled. "Never was one for golf. Used to drive Charles nuts."

"Right." Gerard slapped his friend's arm. "You and sports."

"Does it help if I mention I like water polo?"

"No it does not." Sam wrestled back a grin. "It really doesn't."

Richard snorted and this felt normal, being shoulder to shoulder with an ally against the world, watching couples dance and clusters of men mime their golf swing while chowing down on shrimp. Even in April the Chicago air was a tad crisp, their breaths steaming into the night.

More sensitive coworkers stopped by to offer condolences and their gratitude that Kimble could make it to the party. Richard looked quiet and shy for one conversation and then squared up, handshake rock solid, to cater a board member or corporate sponsor.

_He's been a chameleon all along_.

Richard Kimble had clearly been the consummate masque actor long before his fugitive days.

Sam only left his side twice that night: once to use the restroom and when Kathy pulled Richard onto the dance floor. She threw her head back, laughing at something Richard said.

_I'm going soft_. Sam smiled a tiny, genuine smile.

The whole drama might have been avoided or done in harmless secret if Sam hadn't gotten lost after his second trip to the bathroom off the kitchen, this time to clean up some ice cream on his sleeves, and run smack into one of the wait staff.

"That was my bad, son!" Gerard braced the redhead waiter by the arms. "Are you alright?"

The young man, college age, nodded and shook Sam's offered hand. "No problem, sir! It's been busy all night and I'm wound up. Enjoy the party."

"Thanks! The rib eye is delicious."

"I'll tell the chef."

Both waved goodbye, Gerard patting the man's back, and they parted without incident.

Exiting the building, Sam slowed. His eyes widened. Surely he'd imagined it. For such a trim waist, the boy's lower back had bulged out, an odd angle.

"A gun," Sam breathed. "That kid has a gun in his belt."

Even then, Sam hesitated. There was no law against owning a gun. Maybe he had a dangerous route to walk home. Maybe he was a security detail disguised as a waiter.

_I'm overreacting_.

Then he saw a lanky woman pass holding two trays. The A-line skirt and black tights didn't quite hide a bulge against her thigh.

The bulky cook emerged to replace the ham tray with a cheese pyramid. It looked amazing, distracting guests from a strange shape in his apron.

Gerard's eyes darted for the catering van. There! Silver Catering Company. Their motif was a silver sea horse against the backdrop of a spouting fountain. Sam catalogued every detail of it in his mind.

Though Richard now sat alone on a bench, toe tapping to the band, when Gerard sought his eye, he rose to his feet. Drops of sweat fell from Gerard's temples and he stared, brows working, at Richard.

The doctor's face tightened with worry. He mouthed a word, the wide, single syllable of Sam's name.

_He's so far away. _The dance floor and dessert hub stood between them. _I'll never get to him in time_.

The wait staff all glanced at their watches and put down whatever they were doing. The young man from minutes earlier made eye contact with the cook and bobbed his head.

Sam, on instinct, reached for his belt.

Immediately, the cook dropped the ham tray and withdrew a Glock. He aimed it at Gerard. Sam raised his own in reply.

Guests screamed. The lawn cleared around the two men.

"See!" yelled the not-waiter to the cook. He withdrew his own automatic. "I told you he was a cop! I felt the gun when he ran into me."

And under different circumstances, Gerard might have snickered. That they'd found each other out in a moment of unplanned tripping.

"Our cover's blown if the cops are here," said the girl.

Sam went cold. They thought he was CPD, uncovering…whatever crime this ring was up to. Just by being a federal agent, he'd put all these doctors and dates in a lethal position.

"Put the guns down!" Gerard ordered.

The redhead's eyes blazed. "I don't take orders from cops."

"Son—you are gonna _wish _I was just a cop before this night is over."

The older man, the chef, lowered his gun with wide eyes. "Why would the FBI be investigating us?"

_Oh for the love of…_

"U.S. Marshal's Office." Sam flashed his badge with an apologetic look to all the doctors wearing faces of sudden recognition. "Place your weapons on the ground."

They ignored him, of course. Five bullets shot his way. Guests huddled under the tables, screaming.

A bull elephant, powered by a jet rocket, blasted Gerard off his feet before the bullets could. He landed in a heap next to the empty stage. He was so convinced that only a jet pack wearing, enraged elephant could cause such a stars-in-his-vision impact that he didn't understand the man's face bending over him.

The face looked horrified. The body attached to the face shielded Gerard from further gunfire.

When Gerard got with the program, he shoved his human shield off. "_Richard_?!"

"I just saved your life." Kimble trembled a little where he'd fallen in the grass. "You're welcome."

Gerard slapped him upside the head, he was so outraged. "You could have been shot!"

"So could you."

"Kimble—_I'm _the agent. _I'm _trained for hostage situations."

Richard stared. "They were going to kill you."

"I would have ducked the bullets—"

"There was a _millisecond_ window."

"—And it doesn't matter because I'm the one who puts my life in danger."

"…But…they were going to shoot you."

"Agh!"

This hushed fight went on for another minute before Sam realized Richard wasn't being stubborn. He just didn't get it. By now Gerard had started to shake too, out of sheer frustration. It took him three tries to holster his gun.

_We both have jobs where the lives of others depend on our split second decisions_. Gerard made his wondering peace with that after a few minutes.

The three staff were been joined by more "waiters," fanning out in a rough circle to prevent guests from getting to their cars or off onto the golf course.

A human cage.

They stole jewellery from women's necks and wallets from men at gunpoint. Guests were forced out from under the tables, standing in rows.

"You just stay over there." The cook pointed his gun at Gerard. "I won't miss a second time. If you let us finish our business, we'll walk out of here. You'll never see us again. Capiche?"

Sam got to his feet, ignoring Richard's protesting taps at his back. He made sure to angle himself in front of his friend. "I'm not here investigating you. It's just a case of wrong place, wrong time."

The younger man smiled, tearing the tennis bracelet off a weeping woman. His expression was saccharine and brutal. "Then why don't you eat a crab cake and pretend we were never here?"

That was exactly what might have gone down had sirens not exploded in the distance. Someone had called before the looting started. The thieves only froze a moment before calmly continuing. No, sirens didn't alarm the gun-waving thieves at all—

But they jump started Sam's pulse.

"Sam?" Richard whispered, like he could read this change in bpm with his mind.

"We've seen their faces. They're letting us see faces."

Kimble frowned. "So? All the better to identify them when this goes to court."

Gerard swallowed. "No, Richard. They're going to kill us all before the police show up."

Richard was silent for a very long time, long enough for Gerard to grow concerned. He clutched the doctor's forearm. Had one of the bullets injured him? Was he in some kind of shock?

Gerard was already berating himself. "Richard? You okay?"

"This…is going to sound like a callous question, but there are over seventy guests present. Do they have enough ammo for that?"

The two friends watched ten or so wait staff cart stolen goods off to the catering van in tubs. Some had machine guns.

Gerard shook his head. His gun and its lone clip suddenly seemed like an eye dropper against a tsunami.

"There are other ways to murder people, Richard."

"I know."

"Sorry." Sam went white. "That was tactless."

Richard sighed, but it was a fond sound. "I'm used to it."

Sam slapped him on the back of the head again, gentler this time. Poole would have called it a hair ruffle. He wished he had his cellphone to call the gang.

_Note to self: take cellphone everywhere, even to parties._

Everything went eerily calm. None of the guests put up a fight or played hero. They were smart people, these doctors—they knew that the wisest course of action was to go along with this robbery. Sam took the opportunity to breathe and mentally photograph faces.

Richard's closed-mouth rumble of humour brought Gerard's surprised eyes to him. "What's so funny?"

Kimble grinned. "Everyone pressured me into having a social life and look where it got me."

"Better than playing water polo."

Years later, Gerard was never able to explain that spark in Richard's eye or why it inflated his own chest with such ballooning hope. He tried, in words to friends and therapists, but it was something so utterly _theirs_ that it made Sam's top five list of cherished memories. That he'd been able to ignite such joy, mirth, in someone whose life he'd nearly ruined.

That spark was worth the world.

"I won't tell Kathy you play water polo," said Sam, voice thick, "if you don't tell the gang that I watch musicals."

"Or that you can knit," said Richard.

Gerard almost fell over in surprise. "How—"

Richard held up the two tone scarf. "I'm not stupid."

"No." Gerard kept his eye on the staff and hand on his gun. "That you are definitely not."

"But I accept. Deal."

Richard shook Gerard's hand. Both had sweaty palms but neither mentioned it. Sam felt more than saw Kimble tense at his side.

"What?"

"They're almost done with the guests."

Gerard's eyes were grim. "I know."

"I…I have a plan."

And _that_ made Gerard's top five list of most beautiful phrases. Warmth rushed over him, the comfort of not having to face this alone.

"I'm all ears."

Richard, to Gerard's never ending shock, went red. He got self-conscious over the most bizarre things.

"Well," said Kimble. "We're in a crowd of doctors, people who have backgrounds in ER and triage assessment, people who can think on their feet."

Eyes lowered while he thought, Gerard nodded. "Okay. Big brains a plenty. I see the advantage. I'm just not sure how to use it. We can't pretend to be injured."

"Of course not." Richard put both hands on his hips. "They'd probably just shoot that person, if they're going to off us anyway."

Gerard's heart panged. He wondered if that feeling would ever go away either.

"Follow my lead," said Richard.

"Wait—you can't just leave without telling me what you're going to…Richard!" The doctor walked sedately out from behind Sam's protecting shadow and over to the young redhead. "_Richard_!"

Sam had rarely felt so helpless. So he obeyed and followed several feet behind. He had the fierce impulse to fist a hand in that scarf and leash the doctor away from the danger.

"Excuse me," said Richard quietly, neck hunched a little, hands clasped and out where the gunman could see them. "I just thought you should know that I'm not here for pleasure, as a guest. I've been sent in cooperation with the…Marshal's Office…to assess a patient zero, one who escaped from prison recently."

The redhead scratched at a mosquito bite on his neck. "Patient zero? Sounds bogus."

Richard blinked. "It's very real, son. Patient zero means she was the first to be infected. There's been an outbreak in the suburbs here where the prisoner is hiding out and this is…"

He glanced at the guests and then leaned in. Unconsciously, the redhead leaned in too. Richard lowered his voice to a conspirator's whisper. "This is a fancy form of _quarantine_. We didn't want to alarm anyone until the investigation is complete, so we sent them invitations to a party. You chose a bad group of people to rob."

The youth went ashen faced.

"What's wrong?" The cook sauntered over, Glock at the ready. "What's going on here?"

The redhead didn't take his eyes off Kimble. "They're all…_infected_?"

Richard sighed a burdened sigh. His voice was just loud enough to carry. "Tragic, really. It starts with itchy lesions on the neck, then progresses to boils in the respiratory tract and from there, well. Brain damage."

The cook kept his unblinking gaze on Kimble, assessing, trying to find deception. Richard looked genuinely aghast.

"How are you not infected?" asked the cook.

"My partner and I took a special antibody injection before coming." Richard nudged Sam. "It's kept us immune. We were planning to give everyone else the antibody through a special toast at the end of the ceremonies but, alas, you started stealing…"

"Wait a minute." The girl came over now. Her jaw was cement. "Are you telling me that all of the things in those tubs are infected too?"

"Wallets, necklaces." Kimble ticked off his fingers. "Cufflinks, earrings, chequebooks—anything that people touch with their hands, really."

Gerard woke from feeling like he was watching an Oscar winning film to step forward. "I see it's already started on you, son."

The redhead's hand flew to his neck. "No. No! I gotta get out of here!"

"Keep your head on!" The cook shook the young man roughly by the chest of his uniform. "We finish the job. I don't trust this liar."

As if appearing from the dessert table, Kathy squeezed between the lines of doctors and doubled over, coughing. She'd put lemon cream in her mouth and it dribbled over her chin.

"See?" Richard pointed, his eyes fighting that spark again. "There's our patient zero. The boils pop in the lungs, see, and then the pus—"

The redhead covered his ears and ran off to the kitchen, shrieking.

That did it: doctors were on their knees, swaying. Some itched at their necks. One genius heart surgeon had taken the strawberry sauce and dabbed it in splotches on his face. Wails filled the golf pitch.

The cook licked his lips. "Alright. That's enough. Be quiet!"

The doctors coughed and coughed. Foam ran down their chins. Women pretended to cry over their husbands and give fake CPR.

Sam wished dearly that he had a camera.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Kathy railed at Richard. "We're doctors. We could have found a cure—together!"

Richard pretended to wipe his eyes on his sleeve. "We couldn't tell anyone until we had even a hope of treating this! I didn't want to…to let you down."

_Second note to self: recruit Richard for the annual Marshal's nativity pageant. And academy training re-enactments._

It was the funniest thing Gerard had ever witnessed—award winning doctors faking sick like they were trying to convince their mothers they shouldn't go to school—until the cook aimed his automatic at Kathy.

"No!" The protest tore from Richard so hard his breath created a cloud in the midnight air. "If you shoot into their bodies, the infection will become airborne. Then we might inhale it!"

_Come on. Even I know that one's baloney. _

But the cook immediately lowered his arm.

Sam saw his opportunity. He dove for the gun, lifting the man's arm to the sky while twisting it out of his hand. Several shots fired upwards. Richard took the woman down with a pinch to some part of her neck.

Gerard sputtered. "Did you just…?"

Richard shook his head. "She's unconscious."

Gerard almost asked Richard the absurd request of "Could you do it to the other gunmen?" before years of training kicked in and he twisted the cook's arm, gun discharging into the man's shoulder. He dropped.

Sam pocketed the cook's Glock before firing his own at those with weapons up. Six staff collapsed in rapid fire.

The other three ran off to the van. Gerard took off in a sprint that would make his high school cross country coach euphoric. Still running, he shot out the back ties _and_ the driver in the knee before he could hop in.

"The other two are getting away!" Kathy hollered.

She needn't have bothered. A burly surgeon and one lanky nurse took out the last two in football tackles, wrapping the thieves in microphone cording to raucous applause. Chief of OR staff waved police officers over while Kathy handed tubs out to be dusted for prints. Gerard snagged a plastic bag and put the cook's Glock in it.

"Well." Sam walked back and cuffed Richard on the shoulder like they were drinking buddies. "I haven't seen that much action in, well, over a year. I promised you wouldn't be bored, didn't I?"

Kimble quirked a challenging brow. "No. You didn't."

"Oh." Gerard glanced around at the damage and doctors wiping 'boils' off their lips. "This will certainly be a party to remember."

"Deputy," said Richard, "Our lives can never…_ever_…be considered boring."

A flicker of something on the doctor's face dampened any humour in his words. He rubbed at his chin in a tic that tightened the knot in Gerard's sternum. To anyone else, the gesture was all relief, an absent thing. Sam knew better.

"Aw, Doc. I'm so sorry."

Richard shook his head. "I'm not going home to blood. You were right. I'm still…I…I'm glad I came."

His eyes glistened but he maintained eye contact.

"You saved our hides, Richard. Thank you. I owe you one. Again."

Richard shrugged. Sam's scrunched face dropped.

"Kimble. Look at me. Kimble." Richard finally did. "You deserve to feel safe, just like any other citizen. I'll be here to make it so for as long as it takes."

Heartbeats passed and Gerard saw the argument on his friend's tongue. Not in disbelief that Gerard would keep his promise but that he, Richard, deserved the same treatment as everyone else.

Sure, he knew that from a legal perspective. But personally?

"And you deserve to let go of the guilt surrounding that," said Richard. His fingers sought outwards, just for a moment, and the touch on Gerard's sleeve stole his breath. It was the first contact Kimble had really initiated. "I'm only here and free today because of you."

"I'm not the one who found all that evidence."

"No, but you believed me. You were the only one."

Sam clicked the safety on his gun and holstered it. He shuffled a bit in the grass, watching detectives stream onto the scene. Cuffed thieves were read their right and ducked into squad cars. Statements were already being taken from guests. Hugs exchanged.

Police tape streamed along the parking lot, like the bow on an open-and-shut crime that had only lasted…Gerard checked his watch…forty minutes. It was a massive success, as crime stopping went. No casualties, no missing items. Everyone laughed over the doctors' acting.

Forty minutes for an illusion of peace to be shattered in the man at his side.

Farther away, the two men went unnoticed but for Kathy's quick wave while the detective took her statement.

"I need a stiff drink," said Richard.

"I can help with that."

Both men whirled around. The male waiter wiped bile from his chin and brought an arm up to level with Richard's eyes.

_The redhead!_ _Rookie mistake forgetting about him._

Gerard would have lambasted himself, loudly and violently, but his mind finally registered that the raised hand held a gun. A young detective ran over, not much older than their perp, and tried to wrestle this last thief to the ground.

The gun discharged.

A cold wave foamed along Gerard's ribs.

He felt the world go grey, losing colour. Losing heat. Losing balance.

With a hand fisted in Kimble's blazer, he dragged the doctor down in his collapse. Richard stumbled to his knees. Whenever this happened with Cosmo or Biggs around, one of them usually screamed, "MEDIC!"

Instead, Richard immediately tore his suit coat off to wad it against Gerard's side. He swore and babbled off something to himself, something about wishing he had a syringe and bullets dangerously close to arteries.

"Just keep breathing," said Richard. "Deep breaths. I know it's hard."

"Never boring, Doc. Never boring."

"Sam…"

A dangerous twist to Kimble's lips didn't match his doctor's mask. Gerard pushed past the pain and his uneven breathing to pat his friend's bloody hand. Richard nodded even though he didn't take his eyes off the wound.

The detective knelt beside Richard. "Your man got away onto the golf course. He seems to be rallying for another, more…personal attack. Rather offended by however you fooled him. I'll station someone with you."

"No need." Fingers a blur in their tremors, Sam handed his gun to Richard. There was only one bullet left but it would do. The doctor stared at it like it would bite him, weighing it in his free hand. "I'm safe. No one better to treat a gunshot wound than a doctor, right?"

The detective hesitated.

"Go," Gerard insisted. "That boy's a loose cannon and we need to find him. Deputy Gerard, by the way, U.S. Marshal's Office."

In a daze, the detective shook Sam's hand. He had kind eyes, with that slight and perpetual tilt of concern good men bore. It said he didn't sleep well at night because of the ones he swore to protect.

"Howard Chernov," said the detective.

Sam liked him instantly.

"How are you still conscious?" Richard barked. He'd gone into "surgeon mode." The pressure of his hands on Gerard's ribs sent him into a buck but he didn't make a sound.

"Sheer stubbornness and…experience, Doc. Not…the first time I've…been shot. I'm sure it won't be the last."

Richard threw him a startled look. Gerard gestured to the gun.

"You know how to use…use that thing?"

In answer, Richard switched off the safety and pulled back the slide.

Gerard hid his impressed shock behind a hiss of pain. "Never mind then. I should know better. You never cease to surprise me."

"Gotta keep you on your toes somehow."

"Treating two bullet wounds in two months isn't enough for you?"

"Nah. That's a normal Tuesday. Now thieves. _That_ gets the blood pumping."

After a long second, Chernov's brows went high, mouth agape. His eyes flitted between the two men. "You trust this man, Deputy?"

Sam's mouth snapped shut. Did he? Besides water polo and an affinity for stale donuts, what did he really know about Richard Kimble?

But then Gerard thought of those micro movements, body language Gerard could read better than the doctor's own in-laws. He thought of late night calls and the tears Richard never showed but Sam felt under his skin. About a long car ride from the hotel that night. He thought about the fact he knew more about Richard's darkest chapter than anyone alive.

He thought about that stupid hoodie.

And the words slipped from Sam's mouth with the ease of breathing:

"I trust Richard with my life."

Kimble's hands paused and then started back up.

Chernov nodded. "Alright. The EMTs are almost here. Thanks, Deputy. Doctor."

Richard nodded, face strained. He didn't even seem to notice the young detective leaving.

"Richard, I've got to apologize."

"We went over this. You're not to blame for this schmoozer party becoming a crime scene."

"No, I mean…" Sam's lids fluttered. He fought the black curtain by weakly gripping Richard's wrists in some automatic response to pain and regret at doing this to Richard. At leaving him alone. "I…I don't think I can…"

"Gerard? Gerard—_Sam_? Stay awake. Come on. Sam!"

Just before unconsciousness swept Gerard away, a familiar face spotted Richard and ran over in delighted surprise.

_Detective Kelly? _

Kelly raised a rifle. Instead of putting up both hands, Richard kept his grip around the jacket and the wound. He stared back with silent fury. Pride hovered on Sam's lips.

_Pair of steel on that man. _

Long…_long_-hated words followed Gerard behind the black curtain:

"Doctor Kimble—freeze!"


	4. Chapter 4

Gerard needed to apologize to Chicago citizens everywhere. It had always seemed like a ridiculous nickname: "the windy city." It wasn't _that _breezy.

Now, Sam rescinded this sentiment.

A hurricane swished over Gerard's head, a flurry of voices and cold. The breezes tore at his hair and disturbed the cozy bubble he'd fallen into. His chest was bare, he felt. A blanket covered his pants. It was smaller hands, being shoved off Sam's shoulder only to reappear and be snapped at by the voices, which woke him fully.

His eyes bobbed open. An oxygen mask fogged over his nose and mouth.

The first sight to greet him was a helicopter flying low overhead, sweeping the golf course with a search light. Chernov leaned out the open hatch.

_Perp still missing, then. _

Hurricane identified, Sam glanced to his right and the distraught face of…

"C…Cosmo?"

The marshal's eyes snapped to Gerard. His badge swung from a chain around his range jacket. Poole talked on a cell behind him.

"Sammy!" Cosmo pulled his hands from the scowling, female EMT and looked for a minute like he wanted to curl over Sam's chest and cry. Instead, he let out a trembling laugh. "I'm the one who's supposed to get shot, not you!"

"We're both lucky. The bullet just swiped me."

"I know," said Cosmo. "Two of the docs just finished sewing you up."

The EMT huffed. "Couldn't believe it when I got here and you'd already been treated. They sterilized you with scotch and used a needle from a woman's mini sewing kit in her purse to stitch you closed.

"MacGyver as it was, it probably saved you from needing a blood transfusion. Your wound isn't as serious as it looks, though. Just a really big gash, essentially."

Gerard removed the mask to smile. "Like I told Richard, there's no safer place than a doctor party."

At the mention of Kimble's name, Poole and Cosmo went pale. Something constricted in Poole's jaw, her hand over the phone as if on hold. Her eyes were molten fire.

Sam's expression dropped. Dread coiled his around throat. "How did you guys get here so fast? I've only been out for two hours, tops."

Poole hesitated. "We have the Marshal's database set for hits anytime…anytime certain people are arrested."

Everyone hushed at the words, even emergency crews. They kept glancing at Poole's phone. Something had gone down. Something even bigger than a robbery.

_No. Oh, God, no. _It was a prayer and a plea all at the same time.

Gerard was up on his elbows so fast the EMT swore.

"Sammy?"

"Sam?"

Gerard ignored everyone's eyes. He was a man possessed.

He yanked out the IV in his wrist and the mask from around his head without flinching. Voices around him rose in volume. Hands shaking, Gerard tore the heart monitor nodes off his skin. A violent screech of Velcro ripping was the last hurdle. Sam threw the blood pressure cuff onto the grass.

Other EMTs hopped off the ambulance next to Gerard, to stop him. "Deputy, you've lost a lot of blood."

"We're taking you to the hospital for observation."

"Sir?"

Gerard's first attempt at standing would have been about as dignified as a folding chair if not for Cosmo and Poole's sudden grab for his elbows. They put his arms around their shoulders.

Sam shivered. "Someone get me a shirt!"

Cosmo disappeared and returned with an ocean blue V neck sweater. "A gift from one of the heart surgeons. He sends his thanks, by the way."

While Cosmo wrestled Sam into the sweater, both wincing, Poole kept the phone to her ear. "I'm waiting for the DA. He wasn't impressed about being woken up at three in the morning, but he's as outraged as you are."

Sam nodded once, overwhelmed by gratitude to his kids and drowning in such fury that he could strangle someone without breaking a sweat.

Cosmo nodded back, smiling a little because he spoke Gerard's nonverbal language.

"It's obscene for you to be walking around," said Poole. "But so is what just happened. Let's go."

Gerard slumped against his people, porcelain white, and was thankful they understood. This was infinitely more important than hospital trips.

"We'll take him to Chicago Memorial the moment this is resolved," Cosmo called back to the shouting EMTs.

Once lowered into the car's backseat, Gerard closed his eyes. He waved at Cosmo to step on it. With the world so breezy, cold, and spinning, he held onto the overhead handle for support.

"Yes," barked Poole into her phone. "I know. That's why we're on our way to the precinct! Well then tell him to drive fast, Secretary."

She hung up and even Gerard couldn't hold back a grin. He opened his eyes. "Good work, Poole."

"I'll shoot him myself if this escalates."

Everyone scowled. There was no need to wonder who "him" referred to.

"Where is my weapon?" Sam whispered.

"Chicago PD took it as evidence."

"Evidence? What—?"

"I don't know," Poole growled, but her anger wasn't directed at Gerard. "I've tried calling the precinct. They're stone walling us on purpose, Sam."

Gerard said nothing more for the drive over. He didn't close his eyes, didn't allow himself to drift. The pain kept him awake, an assistant to the controlled frenzy behind his eyes.

Berserker rage. He'd never understood it before now.

Now every thought of his friend was a poison dart in his brain.

When the car pulled into the lot, Gerard didn't even wait for it to stop. He was up and through the front doors before Cosmo put it in park.

Cops bustled around the lobby, even at this hour. Gerard didn't stop at the front desk. He tracked a woman's shrill voice down the hall.

"Sir? You can't go back there." The man on duty at the front desk stood. "Excuse me. _Sir_?"

Sam flashed his badge and kept on walking.

The right side of the wall at the far end was made of one way glass. Kathy stood by the door and a police guard, her pant suit grass stained. Her make up ran with tears. Despite the disheveled picture, her eyes were a lightning storm.

She poked the guard's chest. By his weary eyes, this wasn't the first time.

"Let me see my friend!" she screeched. "You have no right to hold him!"

Newman and Biggs were already there, trying and failing to calm Kathy. Newman had a hand on her bicep, more for comfort. He kept rubbing it as if that would lower her volume.

Fat chance.

"Doctor Wahlund," Biggs soothed, "you need to let us handle this!"

Noah caught sight of Gerard. He deflated with a huge sigh. "Oh, thank God."

Kathy turned. Her eyes immediately found Sam's right side. She walked over and lifted up his shirt like he was her patient. He supposed he was, now.

"The stitches are flawless. Those docs did a great job. Any dizziness?" She felt his forehead. "You're not fevered. Infection usually sets in within the first three hours…"

"_Kathy._"

And like Newman, Sam's one word deflated Kathy's taut body. She sighed. Her eyes filled with more tears. "He's got him alone in there. _Alone_."

Kathy's one word had the opposite effect.

As if Gerard was a lightning rod, he absorbed the energy from Kathy, from his kids, and swelled to his full height.

He glanced in the room. Sound had been muted to the hall so no one could tell what was being said. Detective Kelly towered over Kimble's seated, cuffed profile. Blood dribbled from Richard's lower lip.

_His lip is bloody._

Gerard's eyes widened.

Nobody, not even Kathy, had an ounce on the irate fire that began quivering off Gerard. Hands balled into fists, brows drew low, and eyes burned. His very lips shook with disgust. The aura of protective wrath sucked the colour from the guard's face.

Despite this awe inspiring display, Gerard's voice was the quietest of the night. "Step aside. I'm a U.S. Marshal."

The guard's eyes shifted. "I…I have orders to keep all personnel, even our own, from this room."

"Do you really want to go up against a team of federal agents and one incensed pathologist?"

The five at his back glared, giving weight to Sam's words. The cop's hand slowly reached for his gun.

Gerard's nostrils puffed. "I said…step aside. Before I'm not so nice about it."

"Protocol states—Hey!"

Gerard reached around the young officer and banged twice on the door. Detective Kelly's head shot up from screaming at Richard. Even without sound Gerard could tell he was screaming.

Richard kept his head down. His shoulders were granite, hunched up. Blood splotched his white dress shirt, though Gerard couldn't tell if it was his own or further wounds.

Fear for Richard forced Sam to find his voice.

"You open this door," Gerard yelled, "or I'll shoot it down. Your choice."

Kelly glowered at the door but twisted the lock. He immediately backed away, as if he were a matador and Sam the bull.

Gerard had imagined this moment: Maybe shoot Kelly and worry about legalities later. Maybe he _would _charge through, throw Kelly against the wall. Maybe he'd handcuff him to the interrogation table.

What happened instead, watched by government officers for years afterward on camera footage when Gerard and Kimble achieved living legend status, was Sam walking sedately through the entrance, closing the door behind him, and ignoring Kelly to kneel beside Richard.

Detective Kelly gaped at them.

Even the growing hall crowd was stunned silent.

Sam placed a hand on Richard's tense shoulder. "Have they hurt you anywhere else?"

Richard's eyes roamed, still faintly on Kelly and his hands. It was a terrifying thing to behold, that such treatment had reduced an intelligent man to primal fear and wariness.

Sam squeezed the rebar muscle under his fingers.

Richard shook himself into something human. Every movement was stiff. "Thank you for coming. No, I'm…not injured."

Gerard didn't believe him but clearly the psychological hurts here were greater than the physical. He made sure to keep himself small, shorter crouched over his heels than Richard sitting in the steel chair. It allowed Sam to reach out—slowly—with his left hand and wipe blood off Kimble's chin without the man flinching.

Richard gazed at his cuffed hands. He relaxed a little.

"I'm not leaving here without you, Richard."

The doctor made eye contact with Gerard for the first time since he entered the room. Sam tried a smile. It was weak but Richard nodded.

"Now hold on, Deputy Gerard."

At the clop of Kelly's dress shoes approaching, Richard coiled into himself. The flashing whites of his eyes physically pained Gerard.

"I have him for aggravated assault and attempted murder," argued Kelly. "He's going into federal custody."

Sam's face lowered into a glare. He turned on his heel, pushed off the table with a sway, and only found his feet because Richard steadied his lower back. He made sure to flick on the sound to the hallway, in case this came to blows and he needed a record.

Placing himself between Richard and the detective, Gerard blew out a fiery breath. "Assault of whom?"

Kelly stared at him. "_You_, Gerard."

"Me?"

"Witnesses say he shoved you to the ground."

"He saved my life when one of the thieves tried to shoot me!"

Kelly set a hand on his hip. His knuckles were bruised. "You were shot by a Glock. His fingerprints were all over the Glock we found next to him."

Gerard kept his eyes on those knuckles for an uncomfortable stretch. "You never were bright at the academy, Kelly."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That _I _gave Richard the gun!"

"He shot you!"

Sam almost threw up his hands and then thought better of it. Richard was already whiter than a china set. "Why would he shoot me and then try to staunch the bleeding?"

"He saw us arrive, Gerard. He shot you and then, running out of time, tried to cover it up as someone else's crime. Whether he was in on the robbery or not, he still had a weapon that wasn't licensed to him."

"Check the serial number on that Glock." Gerard dared another step closer, almost nose to nose with the scumbag. "Go ahead. Check—it'll show up in the database because it's registered to me. _My_ service weapon."

Kelly's nose wrinkled in repugnance when his eyes landed on Richard. "Doesn't change the fact that he used it to shoot you. I don't care that the courts found him innocent. He's a wife killer."

This time Gerard risked it. He balled a hand in Kelly's tie and with a quick twist to the right, slammed the man once down on the table. It took less time than an eye's blink.

Sam sprang back up. Kelly followed seconds later. He clutched at his elbow. It trembled limply.

"The 'funny bone' is actual a nerve called the ulna." Gerard grinned. It had as much mirth in it as a shark's. "Now, a kid bangs their arm and gets a weird prickling sensation. Just a few centimeters to the left, however, and it sends electrocution signals to the spine even though there's no damage to it. Did you know that? I bet you do now."

Kelly breathed hard. He clutched at his arm and began to sweat.

"You were the only witness," the man ground out. "You could be covering for him."

It was Gerard's turn at being flabbergasted. "Why would I cover for a man who shot me? A man I didn't even meet until a year ago?"

"The detective."

Kelly and Gerard turned sharply at Richard's quiet but firm words. Locking eyes with Kelly, some of the fear leaked from Kimble's face.

"Detective Chernov," Richard insisted. "He saw the whole thing, a firsthand witness."

Gerard beamed at Richard. "Good thinking! I'd forgotten about Chernov."

"Besides," said Kimble with an irreverent flick of his head, "Deputy Gerard _is _federal custody."

There was a muted sound outside the door that Sam would have bet his life savings was Cosmo laughing, loud and long.

Sam glanced at his reflection in the "mirror." He pointed to it. "Get me Detective Howard Chernov!"

Somebody was way ahead of his request. Within thirty seconds, Chernov's wild head of hair and askew shirt bolted through the door.

"How dare you?" He stared at Kelly. "You sent me on a wild goose chase for the redhead when you already had him in custody—just to keep me away from this!"

Kelly had recovered enough from the pain to snarl and lean over the younger man. "You stay out of this, Howard. I promised if you played by my rules you'd get a promotion."

Chernov shook his head in disgust. "I reported you to the commissioner. You lied to personnel and used a petty vendetta against this man—" He pointed at Richard. "—To charge him for a crime he didn't commit. Any rookie could see he's innocent."

_Kid catches on fast. _

While the two detectives bickered, Sam withdrew a tiny key from his pocket.

"When you threw him on the table," Richard murmured in surprise, "you stole the key."

"Mm…" Sam worked the key into the handcuff's lock. "I didn't steal the key from anybody. I keep a spare cuff key in my breast pocket wherever I go. Just in case."

"Clever."

"Doesn't say federal agent on my badge for nothing."

Gerard threw the cuffs onto the table and frowned at Richard's suddenly distant eyes. He'd gone mute, not seeming to hear any of the drama going on behind them.

_This is familiar. _

For the very first time, Gerard wished he'd been there when Richard was first arrested, wished the man hadn't had to face this alone. If he could go back in time…

"Richard?"

The man flexed his wrists. He shook in full force now. Despite this, he stood under his own power and Sam followed his solemn march from the room. Gerard's team was nowhere to be found in the deserted hallway, including Kathy.

"Privacy. Man's gift to man"—another of his drama teacher's mantras.

The DA stomped in to lambaste Kelly. Their raised voices quieted when the two men walked down the hall, past Biggs signing release papers, and out into the chilly dawn.

Kimble let out an uneven, high pitched breath. Gerard surveyed the parking lot, like he was a body guard. Upon glancing at Richard, he noticed it first as an odd twist in his friend's knees.

"Richard? Hey, whoa! Easy now…"

Richard slid down the precinct's brick exterior until he was sitting on the ground. Sam resumed his kneel, hand on Richard's elbows until he felt sure this wasn't a fainting spell.

"Richard, I'm going to look you over, okay?"

"Not injured," Kimble panted out. "And _I'm_ the doctor."

"Humour an old marshal."

Richard didn't reply so Sam took that as permission. Mainly, he patted the man down for broken bones. Police brutality wasn't unheard of in cases like this, no matter how wrong it was.

Richard's eyes were somewhere forward and slightly up, blinking slow.

This wasn't shock. Sam had only seen this several times in his career. Once, with a soldier.

_Stuck in a memory loop._

Gerard was just breathing a sigh of relief at the fact only a punch had been thrown when a morning breeze pulled the collar of Richard's shirt down across his right shoulder.

At first the bulging streak looked to be a trick of the streetlights, a weird shadow caused by Richard's head and crisscrossing beams of light. Then Sam touched it and Richard winced.

Gerard's gut dropped like a millstone.

"I'm alright," Richard said immediately.

"Yeah…and I'm a Rockette." The words came strained out of Sam's mouth.

_Great, now I'm shaking too._

It was the ugliest patch of bruise Gerard had seen since his academy days. A motley of violet, blue, and green, it stretched twice the length of Sam's hand from Richard's shoulder tip to the crook of his neck and up nearly to his ear. Raised in places, at least three goose eggs matched long branches…

Like fingers.

Detective Kelly's fingers.

Sam's vision went bright, crimson. "He dislocated your shoulder?"

"He tried to. I fought back, which is when he punched me."

Richard ducked his head after he said this and Sam got the feeling he hadn't meant to. The hair stayed bowed.

"I'm so sorry," Sam whispered. "So…_so_ sorry."

"Wasn't your fault."

"I convinced you to come to the party. If I hadn't given you my gun—"

"Kelly still would have found a reason to arrest me. It…It was the same _room_, Sam. I went to a party and he…the same interrogation room! I was covered in blood."

Gerard didn't know if his friend was referring to tonight or the night his wife died. Probably both.

Richard's body hitched in a silent sob. It was unfathomable. Seeing the dignified man break was a violation of some cosmic law.

Without conscious thought, Sam reached out and cupped the back of Kimble's head. This only increased the chest caving sobs, but Gerard kept his hand there.

He shuffled around to sit beside Richard, between him and the precinct. He was careful not to lean too much on the injured shoulder. A gentle arm was quickly wrapped around Richard's back.

Richard was a creaky ragdoll, eyes wadded up like a towel, the back of one hand to his nose while stuttered breaths dry sobbed from his lungs.

The precinct door open and closed. "Deputy Gerard, I—"

"Get me an ice pack," Sam snapped. He didn't even glance away to see the subject of his bossing. "And some painkillers."

Richard didn't move but his breathing slowed. Wisps of sandy hair eddied in the wind.

It only felt like a few seconds before Detective Chernov crouched in front of the two men holding a water bottle, bag of ice, medical tape, and a bottle of Acetaminophen. His smile matched his eyes.

"I want you to know," he said softly to Richard, "that the DA just fired Kelly. He was the only agent on the force with a real vendetta against you, Doctor. We've been having problems with his leadership for some time. This was long overdue. I extend profuse apologies on behalf of CPD, if you'll accept them."

Richard's lips wrung together for a minute before he lifted his head. His hand stretched for the water.

Chernov nodded. He spoke nonverbal too.

"You could even press charges," said Chernov. "I, for one, would understand."

Richard exhaled with his teeth together. "I just want to…never step foot in this place again."

Chernov nodded, warm and sombre somehow all at once. "We all want that."

Gerard shook the bag of ice and placed it on top of Richard's shirt. Richard stiffened but didn't make a sound. Chernov grimaced like it pained him instead.

"If you ever need help or some protection, maybe you're receiving hate mail, or even just to talk…" Chernov slipped his business card into Richard's slack free hand. "You call us."

Then, for some reason, Richard's eyes went to the medical tape and started to water.

"I can secure your shoulder if you walk me through it," Sam assured him, alarmed. He popped open the painkillers, wondering if the pain was worse than Richard let on.

Kimble sniffed. "You read the book."

"What?"

Richard dutifully swigged back water and Acetaminophen but the tears threatened to spill over. "You read that cardiovascular book. There was a section on nerves and electrical wiring in the body. You actually…_read_ it. "

"What? No I didn't. Haven't had time, what with all this getting shot business."

"You knew about the ulna. I never told you that."

"Well…" Gerard patted Richard's good shoulder. "I might have skimmed the first few pages."

"Chapters."

"Fine. I read it all in one weekend. Happy?"

Richard sighed. "Not really."

Sam waited until he had Richard's full attention. He dug something out of his pocket and handed it to Richard. "Then we'll figure it out until you are."

Richard mushed the navy and red scarf between his hands and sagged back against Sam's arm, eyes closed. Chernov stood to give them space.

"It's different, this time."

"Is it?" Gerard asked. "History repeated itself almost down to the letter tonight."

Richard shook his head, the warmth of it spilling through Gerard's sleeve. "Tonight I'm not leaving alone. Or in handcuffs."

Gerard's grim gaze took in the commencing sunrise, then settled on the crags of Kimble's face. "We're not getting rid of each other now, are we?"

Richard didn't grin or smile. But that spark appeared in his eyes, the one that was a bonfire without his face changing a lick.

Gerard groaned. "Don't go there."

"You could almost say we're…"

"Don't."

"…_Knitted _together."

Gerard had illustrious designs to slap Richard's knee with his free hand. It ended up on Richard's limp arm instead. He rubbed it once. A tear slipped from Richard's eye and landed in his hair.

Sam played with the roll of medical tape. "I still have no idea how to bandage your ligaments."

Kathy took Chernov's place, cleaned up and grinning. "Then it's a good thing I do."

Gerard handed her the tape. She began the process of unbuttoning Richard's bloody dress shirt.

Cosmo knelt beside Kathy, looking like he was going to cry again. He mentioned something about court appeals and cars being pulled around. All that really made sense was Richard's warmth against his side and the scarf draped across their laps.

Gerard lifted his left hand, the one on Richard's opposite shoulder, like a kid answering the teacher at school. "I'll take that ambulance now."


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: **Thank you to everyone who read this whole thing!

* * *

"What? You're sure?"

"Yeah. The note on his chart—it's not mine."

_What's…where?_

"See? The handwriting doesn't belong to any of the trauma doctors on shift."

_Who's pinching my arm?_

"I know this writing. He was my clinical supervisor!"

"They make the kind of story you wouldn't believe unless you see it. Thought the detective was pulling my leg when he brought them in."

"Should we wake him? Wahlund treated him but she's a pathologist."

"Nah. We'll check back later. He was demanding Jello so he's alright."

Gerard was inordinately irritated to pry his lids open and realize he'd missed the two male doctors by a hair. They faded down the hall just as the source of the "pinching" materialized into an IV line.

Insistent beeping was due to a heart monitor on his right index. Everything smelled funny. Darkness shrouded Chicago outside the window.

_Wasn't it pre-dawn just a minute ago…?_

Squinting at the clock, Gerard was speechless to see seventeen hours had passed. At least his side felt worlds better. There wasn't even any pain. He hoped they'd replaced the sewing kit stitches.

Sam's next exploration was to his right. The squint softened.

For there, chin slumped to his chest, ankles stretched out and crossed, sat Richard. His right arm was in a sling. He'd been given a clean denim shirt Sam recognized as his own. He kept it at the marshal's office in a spare set. Peeking out the neck of the collar were tape strips and the shine of liniment.

He looked small.

He looked like he could take on Muhammad Ali himself.

Lots of really heartfelt and moving things came to Gerard's mind. What escaped his lips, however, was:

"You could go home, you know."

Richard didn't stir at Gerard's croak. Some colour had returned to his cheeks. The flush carried a feverish tint. They'd given Richard the good drugs. That or this latest adventure had taken more out of him than he could deal with at the moment.

Doctors came and went over the next hour. An older black nurse brought him a massive bowl of blue Jello with a wink.

"Is he okay?" Sam asked.

The nurse smiled. "Doctor Wahlund did a good job on his shoulder. He was a little dehydrated after the adrenaline crash, probably from the extreme bruising, but your boys wrestled some juice into him. Should replenish his electrolytes."

"I think he changed my medical chart."

The nurse looked surprised Gerard knew this. "He wouldn't let us take a blood sample without supervising. He only crashed when you did."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Please." She petted his hand. "It's the least I can do. You'll be released sometime tomorrow morning."

She left, humming, and quiet resumed. The heart monitor ticked on.

"You can stop pretending, Richard."

Richard cracked one eye. "I really was asleep. Until you two started complaining about my 'supervising.' Be glad I did. That young doctor almost gave you Dilaudid. Codeine was better, considering your medical history."

Sam's eyes twinkled. "Does that make his mistake _your_ mistake? Since you trained him?"

"How do you know that?"

"I have my sources. Wait a minute." Gerard went bug eyed. "How do you know my medical history?"

Richard leaned back. "Wouldn't you like to know. I have my sources."

Gerard rolled his eyes but his smile hadn't been so broad since he'd spotted Richard by that old truck.

Richard read his mind again. "Cosmo and Poole took care of everything. They drove my truck home and I, in turn, will drive your car when you're released. All charges were dropped and they're…they even offered compensation but I turned them down. Kathy fought tooth and nail about going home to sleep. Biggs and I convinced her in the end."

Sam just reclined and watched Richard gesture with his free hand. While rattling off about tire alignment and sending Newman to the library to get a copy of _The Sound of Music_ they could watch, Richard spooned Jello into his mouth. It was comical watching him doing it with his left, non-dominant, hand.

He circled the spoon in that signature tic, sending blue globs onto the floor. Some landed in his lap.

Amusement bubbled up and over, shaking the hospital gown and sheets. Gerard's laughter ended in a groan. He massaged the bullet swipe. "Doctors really are hazardous to health."

The echoing sound was so unexpected, so abnormal in Sam's world, that he didn't notice it at first. It carried a husky quality, the underlying staccato report of stifled mirth.

_Richard's laughing._

Gerard stared at his friend. The busted purple lips were turned up in something easy.

Something free.

_Richard's laughing._

Even around Sam's beloved kids, Richard didn't really laugh. A snort or snicker around the poker table, maybe. The wry smile attesting to his sharp wit, sure. Never laughter. Never the open mouthed sounds he was making now.

Richard misread this silence. He lurched forward. "Sam? Are you in pain? Do you need anything?"

_They have me on the good stuff too._ It was Sam's only explanation for the reason he was the one now fighting a burn behind his eyes.

"You could go home," he gasped out again.

Richard laughed again like this was the greatest joke. The sound made Gerard dizzy. "As if I'd leave you to these sharks. No, if you're here, so am I. You can rest easy knowing your crazy doctor's got everything covered."

He said it as a joke, but the words rang true. Kathy's challenge came back: _it's scary, isn't it?_

Not anymore, it wasn't.

"Besides," Richard added. "Treating gunshot wounds beats water polo any day."

Gerard began to laugh too, loud and swelling. Richard looked gob smacked for two point five seconds before it became contagious. He snickered into his fist, leaning on the mattress. It was uproarious. It was messy.

It was perhaps the most vulnerable both had been in front of each other.

And in that moment, this laughter was interest on the past two years. A buildup of everything neither had let out.

It released now in a flood of something unstoppable, something that hit Sam in a breath—he lay in a hospital bed and this protective doctor was the one he'd hunted for months only to become the closest friend he'd had in his life.

They'd saved each other tonight.

They'd saved each other every day for the past year.

_Cosmic irony._

They were still in stitches—literally, in Sam's case—when Cosmo, Poole, Newman, and Biggs walked into the room. The four halted, Cosmo's brandished Wendy's takeout bag lowering with his arm.

"Uh oh," said Biggs. "We knew this day would come: they've lost it."

"What did they give you?" Poole yelled over the din. "Laughing gas?"

Newman simply joined in. Maybe his sensitive soul understood better than all of Sam's kids. He popped a movie in the DVD player mounted underneath the corner television. Richard stood, still hoarse with laughter, to check HDL readings on Sam's heart monitor.

Gerard only stopped laughing because his stitches threatened to pop, growing warm.

Richard stopped out of shock when Cosmo gave him a hug.

"You're the best, Doc."

The others hummed their agreement around mouthfuls of fast food. Sam broke into his own bacon cheeseburger. Chairs were pulled up, Julie Andrews crested the hilltop to begin singing, and Richard broke away from the embrace red faced and a looking thousand pounds lighter.

"Those are my fries!"

"No," Biggs argued with Cosmo. "These came with mine."

"Then you only ordered five fries, not six!"

The bickering continued to cover Gerard's still moist eyes. He cocked his head at Richard, now seated with his good elbow propped on the mattress.

"You broke our deal."

Richard put down his salad fork, eyes clouded in thought.

"You told them I like musicals!"

Richard's lips twitched. "It wasn't my suggestion. I think Noah was already on to you."

"Totally not a secret, boss."

Gerard threw a fry at Newman. It bounced off his head. The homey sounds lulled Sam. He felt…himself…for the first time in years.

"Richard? I'm glad it happened."

_You're on the _really_ good drugs._ _That didn't make any sense._

Sam said it sotto voce, so the others wouldn't hear. Being so close, Richard did. He stilled, head bowing again for a split second. Then he tilted to see Gerard, nodding, eyes big and sincere.

He spoke nonverbal better than all of them.

When no one was looking, Sam feathered a hand over Richard's head. It was brief. Sam hoped he could blame it on the medications later.

Right now, though…he needed to feel the very alive presence of a man history said he should have shot or put behind bars. This profound, innocent man. Innocent in every sense and yet wiser than most.

That's when Sam noticed the scarf. Richard had hidden it under his shirt, tied in a loop around his neck. It fluttered in tandem with Richard's heartbeat.

And at that sight, Gerard knew he was safe to close his eyes. He trusted Kimble to have his back.

"Don't worry." Richard's whisper followed Sam into a doze. "I won't tell them you can knit."

Cosmo fumbled with the remote. It paused on a bunch of nuns.

He whirled around. "You can _what_?"

FIN

* * *

Written in 2017.


End file.
